


Inkstains

by The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: And we've done a bunch of world-building using starlingnight's AU, Angst, Eleven is wheelchair-bound, It's pretty awesome, Multi, My twin and I RP a lot, Work inspired by a work that was inspired by a work, fic-ception, hopefully, more on that later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 07:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6042853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea/pseuds/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Quiet,” I snap. He knows nothing about what I've gone through on Trenzalore, my hand blown to bloody bits while he just-- </p><p>It wasn't him. </p><p>It was my Doctor, the man I love but cannot forgive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inkstains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starlingnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlingnight/gifts), [Aloof_Introvert](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloof_Introvert/gifts).
  * Inspired by [And I Must Scream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/305761) by [starlingnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlingnight/pseuds/starlingnight). 
  * Inspired by [A day in the life of a Raggedy Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5871511) by [Aloof_Introvert](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloof_Introvert/pseuds/Aloof_Introvert). 



> Okay, so Aloof_Introvert (my twin) was inspired by starlingnight's AU (please go read it!) And it created this whole thing, and we RP it a lot, world-building. It's pretty great.

“Inkstains”

 

I'm writing, prosthetic hand tangled idly in my hair. It provides a sense of feedback-- often, the sensors on the hand invoke sensory overload, but the touch of my hair straddles just enough and too much.

 

My desk is littered with scraps of scattered paper, the remains of broken pens, and ink sloshed against the wood grain. It creates a dark puddle, and I stare at the shadow my reflection creates.

 

Raggedy slumps in with his odd shuffling sort of walk, and I look up when he says, “Messy.” I can hear the implied smile in his voice; with him, every emotion is merely implied. He's so far from my Doctor that sometimes I feel he's only an echo.

 

But he's not. He's a person, with desire and needs and wants. 

 

“I suppose,” I mumble. I'm cagey, wary, and for some reason my voice wavers.

 

He cocks his head to demonstrate his concern. Or is it confusion?

“Something wrong.” 

 

His voice is flat, but the question is implied. He's not so good at punctuating his sentences proper, and it grates against the writer in me.

 

I return my attention to my writing, scrawling a few words. “Nope.”

 

I try to believe it, even when I snap the stupid pen in half. It's the third pen of the hour, and it's getting on my nerves. His voice is, too, as he draws closer.

 

“Amy…”

 

“Quiet,” I snap. He knows nothing about what I've gone through on Trenzalore, my hand blown to bloody bits while he just-- 

 

It wasn't him. It was my Doctor, the man I love but cannot forgive. His obsession with penitence and saving those who couldn't be saved cost me my  _ hand _ , a vital part of me gone.

 

_ Rory’s hands covered in blood,  _

_ The Doctor’s marble-green eyes huge with fear and need and exhilaration, with adrenaline and-- _

 

“Do you want… a hug.” His toneless voice sticks in my head, and I jerk my head up. 

 

“No!” I snarl, and the heat in my voice shocks me. But I'm too angry to tamp it down, and his mouth tightens.

 

He asks, softly, “Do you want to be alone.”

 

“What have you that idea?” I snap, and he should  _ know  _ better, to leave me alone when I'm like this. It's obvious I'm in no mood to see him, the man who looks like the man I love but can't forgive. I can't help but displace my outrage onto Raggedy-- I know it's irrational. No, more than that, it's hurtful.

 

But it feels very good when he grimaces and mutters, “Your tone,” and shuffles off, leaving me to my molten memories.

 

Five flashbacks and seven pens later, Eleven wheels in. He wants to know what I want for lunch, but I can hardly hear him. He sounds so distant; is it me,  the one who's far away, or him?

 

I shout at him to go away, voice low, and he leaves, stuttering something about fish and chips.

 

I watch him go.

 

Eight flashbacks and twelve pens later, I seek him out and apologize, but the anger behind my lips is tangible. 

 

I can't forgive him, not when ink stains his hands. It's red ink, crimson, and I'm disgusted. No, I can't forgive him.

 

Not yet.


End file.
